On Thursday, Thanksgiving morning at about eleven o'clock, my mother and I got into her red Toyota Prius to travel to her older sister's house where we would have the Thanksgiving meal. It was almost a two hour drive to her town on the peninsula south of San Francisco.
Aunt Sophia (known to all as Sophie) was a few years older than my mother, in her early fifties. She and her husband were very well off. She had no job and didn't need one, so she kept busy with exercise, lunching with friends, shopping, and a variety of other matronly, suburban activities.
Sophie was a few inches taller than my mother and also more slender and fit. Her figure was closer to the traditional hour glass that men were said to prefer. Her hair was a lighter shade of brown and she had her stylist put blonde highlights in it. She had nicely proportioned, firm legs which she kept that way by working out at her fitness center three days a week. What drew my attention most, however, was her breasts which were larger than my mother's. If I had to guess, I would say a D cup compared to the full C on my mother. She was one of those attractive women who tended to stand up straight and hold her shoulders back, not shy at all about displaying to all her sizable rack. She also usually dressed to show off her assets, wearing snug tops, often with plunging necklines, and shorts or skirts that ended high on the thigh.
I think I was thirteen when I first became obsessed with Aunt Sophie's breasts. They were what I would look forward to most when we were going to visit. And when she had the high beams on, wearing a top that left much of the upper parts of her breasts and the enchanting valley between them exposed, I would be mesmerized like the deer we have all heard about in the headlights. At times like that, she would often catch me staring, but her only reaction would be to smile in a somewhat self-satisfied way and perhaps to stretch in a way that showcased her rack even more. I loved it particularly when she would reach up to scratch the back of her head, thrusting her succulent mammaries and often erect nipples further out, while continuing to smile at me.
Her husband, Ivan, was a software engineer who was one of the original employees of a networking company that went public in the Internet boom of the late nineties. He had enough stock in the company to become quite wealthy, beyond any need to work, though he did keep on working. His work was his main interest and he seemed to have little use or talent for socializing and small talk or most anything else outside of his work. After the IPO, Ivan and Sophie bought a large house in Woodside, one of the most affluent communities in that very up-scale region below San Francisco. They had expensive, German and Japanese luxury cars which they replaced every few years.
They had two daughters, both in their mid-twenties, too old to have an interest in me, or so they seemed to have decided. The older one was named Marissa and the younger Brigette. Marissa had graduated from Stanford, close to home, while Brigette had ventured as far as Pomona in southern California. They had been good students, and both were very accomplished in other ways, playing musical instruments and singing in choruses and a capella groups, acting in dramatic productions, and volunteering at local non-profit organizations. They were conventionally pretty and never seemed to lack for boyfriends, all of whom had gone to highly reputable colleges and held good jobs in the Silicon Valley ecosystem.
Aunt Sophie greeted us when we arrived around one o'clock. She was wearing a flimsy-seeming off-white, diaphanous blouse revealing a hint of lacy bra underneath which was pushing up her already prominent breasts. Maybe she was already compensating for a little mid-life sag. Below, she had on a short, flared skirt rather than her more usual shorts, no doubt in deference to the holiday. She had sandals on her feet, with well manicured, painted toenails emerging from the front.
The Thanksgiving meal was planned for a decent hour, not too late in the afternoon. Soon after we arrived, my mother and Sophie repaired to the kitchen to deal with the final preparations. They liked to get tipsy drinking sparkling rosé wine when they got together, and they had a bottle of that in the kitchen with them.
Uncle Ivan had taken his pre-lunch, very dry, large Beefeater martini into another room where he was focused on his computer. I was sitting on a couch in the living room drinking an imported beer that I found in the fridge and skimming a copy of Science magazine that had been lying on the sleek, modern coffee table.
My two cousins were sitting together across the large room on a love seat talking to each other and drinking what looked like cans of diet soda. I could not hear what they were saying. I am sure they thought of themselves as attractive, svelte, educated, marriageable young women that any young, up-scale male would be anxious to court. They had no idea of how much their lack of interest in me was reciprocated.
When Sophie and my mother emerged from the kitchen about forty-five minutes after they had gone in, it was obvious that they had had a few glasses of the wine each. Their faces were slightly flushed, and they were giggling a little together. I noticed that Sophie gave me a little bit of an appraising look and a wry smile. I remembered then that my mother was never very discreet when even slightly inebriated, and she and her sister kept few secrets from each other anyway.
The turkey was set on the table and the other dishes on a side board where we were to help ourselves. Ivan as "the man of the house" was to carve the bird, and he put on a rather incompetent display butchering uneven slabs of white and dark meat from the breast and legs. Soon we had filled our plates and began to dig in. As we worked our way through the meal, Aunt Sophie glanced at me from time to time during lulls in the conversation with the same sort of semi-quizzical expression on her face that I noticed when she emerged from the kitchen.
